


Merrily we roll along

by Builder



Series: Whoa Bessie [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Seizures, Sickfic, Trans Steve Rogers, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 01:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “Let me just cancel your appointment.  Then we’ll go so you can have your migraine in peace.”  It’s the sad truth to seizures like this.  First absence.  Then illness.  Then pain.“Sorry.  R-really, I’m…”  The words may be in the wrong order, but the sentiment is sincere.





	Merrily we roll along

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mohini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/gifts).



> Find me on tumblr @builder051

They’re driving.  Again.  James’s slew of twice-a-year check ins with various specialists have rolled around, and more than one has referred them on to yet another more capable doctor friend.  There’s new technology out now, too.  First James let them outfit his ears, and now, finally, he’s thinking about letting them outfit his arm.   **  
**

The new prosthetics specialist is Swedish, at least Steve thinks he is.  Somebody Odinson.  Between James’s hearing and the doctor’s accent, their teleconference went less than well.  So now they’re driving.  Not to Sweden, but it may as well be, with all the twists and turns and side streets.  Steve silently tells the GPS to go fuck itself, then mutters to James, “We’re so taking the highway the rest of the way.  Just let me find an on ramp.”

“Ok.”  James doesn’t seem to care.  Why would he?  He doesn’t drive, doesn’t particularly mind if they’re on time for his appointments.  He looks especially blank, though.  Maybe a little grey in the dim afternoon light filtering through the heavy clouds.  

“You doing ok?” Steve hopes James isn’t carsick, though it would make sense if he was.  The path they’ve been following is more akin to Thunder Mountain than an actual street map.  But there’s no self-conscious gulping, no green tinge across his cheeks.

“Yeah.”  James blinks, but doesn’t look at Steve.

“Tired?” Steve guesses.  They were up once overnight, briefly, at one in the morning, but a cuddle and a glass of water put James down again without much trouble, so Steve counted it for a win.  Compared to the sleepless nights they’d endured before the insurance approved the Prazosin, it was practically pleasant.

“Hm.”

“Alright.”  Steve doesn’t push him.  He’s probably nervous about the consultation, and talking about it will just make it worse.  “Here’s the highway.”  Steve twiddles the steering wheel and merges onto the interstate.  “I bet we’ll be there in ten minutes.”

This time, James doesn’t respond.

Steve mentally shuffles his deck of therapist cards.  He’s not technically supposed to treat James, but the techniques have done a lot to calm him through stressful situations.  “You feel like talking it through?” he asks, always wary of chattering too much and getting on James’s nerves.

“Eh.”  James shrugs and looks out the window.

“Ok.”  Steve settles on a CBT protocol.  What’s the positive?  What’s the negative?  What’s the realistic?  “What’s a good thing that could happen at the appointment?”  He looks at James, then quickly returns his eyes to the windshield when a fat drop of rain splatters across the glass.

“Um,” James starts.  He takes a shuddering breath.  “I…  I could…”

“Uh-huh,” Steve encourages him, turning on the windshield wipers.  

“I could… um.”

The traffic slows in front of Steve.  He presses down on the brake, wondering what’s causing the backup.  He shifts in his seat, trying to see around a monsterous jeep.  At first he doesn’t notice anything unusual, then he sees a line of orange barrels edging him steadily out of his lane.  “Shit,” Steve whispers at the same moment that James gives up on his stuttering and murmurs, “Fuck.”

Steve laughs quietly.  “Aren’t we a pair?”  He throws another glance in James’s direction and turns on his blinker.  “Come on, give me a good possibility.”

“I… ok…”  James heaves a sigh.  “Um…”

“Buck?”  Steve squeezes in between the jeep and a pickup truck that seems set on bottoming out the speed limit.  Steve could probably roll faster if he put the car in neutral.  The one benefit of the slow tempo is that he doesn’t need to steer, though, so he reaches over to gently pat James’s shoulder.  It’s the stump arm, so he’s careful not to exert too much pressure or move too quickly, but James seems to need the grounding touch.

“I…”

“Ok,” Steve assures him.  “It’s ok if you can’t think of one.  You wanna tell me… what we should pick up for dinner later?”

He hears James drag in another breath, then let it out with what sounds like a mighty tremor.  Steve breathes slowly himself and keeps his ears peeled.  

“I…can’t.”

“Huh?”  It’s not want Steve expects to hear, though he can’t think of a good reason why not.  “You don’t have to, Buck.  You never have to.”

“I… Just… I…”

“Take your time.”  Steve’s beginning to worry now, his heart hammering just a bit more quickly than usual.  He turns his head and takes a good long look, his eyes bouncing from James’s pale cheeks to his cockeyed sunglasses to his slack, white lips.  “Buck?  You feeling alright?”

“I…”  The answer is plainly no, but James still seems unable to pronounce the short word.

“Ok, let me figure this out…”  Now that he’s well and truly merged, there’s nothing to do but inch the car along until they get to the next exit.  Steve ponders pulling over and calling someone, maybe 911, but that’s probably overreacting.  James won’t take well to paramedics poking and prodding at him.  He’s still too coherent for this to be a real emergency.  “Here,” Steve finally says, reaching across James’s chest for his right hand.  “Hold on to me, ok?”

James obliges, though slowly.  His grip starts out strong, then begins to slacken the longer he holds it.  The rain that had previously been sending down drops every thirty seconds or so breaks into a steady downpour.  James practically hisses in distaste.

“I know, just hold on, ok?  I’m going to exit as soon as I can.”

James makes a breathy noise, then swallows wetly.  “I… ok.”

“Ok,” Steve echoes, glad James is at least minimally coherent.  “Ok.  Let’s play a game,” he says with an air of confident cheeriness he doesn’t feel.  “What do you see?”

“Um…”  James pauses for a long moment.  Trees, Steve expects to hear him say.  Or cars.  But instead, James slowly says, “Orange?”  The word trails up at the end, as if he’s not sure what he sees, or maybe how to put it into a verbal form with letters and syllables and sounds.

“Orange?” Steve repeats, his brown knitting in concern.  

“I…  I think?”  James gulps again.  “Um…”

“Alright.”  Steve squeezes his hand.  “You feel sick and you can’t see.  Am I right?”

James slowly nods.  

“Give me those.”  Steve points to James’s sunglasses, then winds up gently pulling them off the other man’s face when he’s too slow.  “Now look at me.”

It’s as Steve suspected.  His pupils are blown and not responsive to the change in light.  The rain makes the afternoon dark and dingy, but there should be enough contrast from the shade of the dark glasses to make at least a little difference.

“And you’re seizing.  Hold on just a little further, Buck,” Steve tells him.  He can see an exit ahead of them now, one thankfully devoid of traffic cones and flaggers.

“Hm.”  James blinks hard and tucks his chin as if suppressing a gag.

“Yeah, just a minute…”  Steve carefully extricates his hand from James’s clammy grip and turns the steering wheel.  There’s a McDonalds just off the road.  Steve barely pauses at a stop sign and pulls into the parking lot.  

“Alright.”  Steve flings open his door and dashes around the car just as James pitches forward against his seatbelt and begins to vomit into the footwell.  He swears under his breath, then yanks the passenger door open and helps James aim for the pavement.  “Ok,” he whispers, squatting in front of him.  “You’re ok.”

“I–” James sputters.

“It’s alright.  You don’t have to talk.”

“No, I–”  James retches again, then drops his forehead onto Steve’s shoulder.  “Ow.”

“Head hurts?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Ok.  Just breathe for me.”  Steve wraps him in a loose embrace and pats him on the back.

James inhales, then pushes the air back out.  He hiccups, then retracts his neck before he throws up again.

“Just breathe,” Steve encourages again.  He tucks a lock of hair behind James’s ear, careful not to jostle the aid perched there.  “Just get your breath back.”

“Ok…”  James spits and wipes his mouth on his stump shoulder.  “I’m… I…”

“Shh,” Steve says.  “We’re not done with our game.  I have a few more questions for you.”

“Hm.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Uh…”  James clears his throat and his whole body shakes.  “Car?”

“Ok, good.”  Steve presses his cheek to James’s temple.  “Know what day it is?”

“I don’t…” James starts.  “Tues… I mean… Wednes… Wednesday?”

“Alright.  See, you’re with me.”  Steve grins and kisses him on the hairline.  

“Still… don’t feel good.”  James bites back a dry heave.

“Let it out.  It’s ok.”

He’s quietly sick again, though it’s just bile now.  Mucous hangs from James’s nose and lips.  Steve opens the glove box to find him a tissue.

“I…” James croaks.  “Home.  P-please?”

“Yeah, of course.”  Steve reaches in his pocket for his phone.  “Let me just cancel your appointment.  Then we’ll go so you can have your migraine in peace.”  It’s the sad truth to seizures like this.  First absence.  Then illness.  Then pain.

“Sorry.  R-really, I’m…”  The words may be in the wrong order, but the sentiment is sincere.  

“Don’t worry about it, Buck.”  Steve gives him another soft peck, then scrolls through the massive list of doctors in his contacts.  “Let me take care of this.  Then I’ll get you home.”

 

 


End file.
